


Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

by TheDarkLadyOfHouseSlytherin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Figures, Historical References, Witch Hunts, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:56:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkLadyOfHouseSlytherin/pseuds/TheDarkLadyOfHouseSlytherin
Summary: Seventeenth-century England. A tale of the witch hunts at the time. Written for an English class and used as an internal.Notes: This story is based around a fictional woman accused of being a witch in the seventeenth century. The language used in the dialogue is as historically accurate as I could make it. The attitudes towards women and how maliciously they were treated throughout this period of time is historically accurate. Between 40,000-200,000 women were killed during the European witch hunts and so the ending is also historically accurate.
Kudos: 1





	Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

Shadows writhe around me, contorting themselves into demons, monsters and people, but whenever I glance closer they dart out of my sight. The woods are dark and eerie and the trees remind me of a crone, bent over, and crooked, a person that has endured through multiple horrors and joys. Something darts over the path in front of me, and grazes my foot, I flinch in fright and mentally berate myself as I realise that it was merely a squirrel. Panickedly I hurry down the path wrapping my cloak around me, pulling the hood over to conceal my face. I glance behind, only to observe the bobbing lights of torches entering the woods, molten red, glowing eyes searching, searching. The pitchforks are illuminated by the light from the torches, held angrily raised to the skies. Swallowing a sob, I continue to run, this time off the beaten path. Brambles scratch at my face and thorns and nettles prick my legs and tear holes in my skirt. Nevertheless, I still continue running, gasping for breath. The howling of the foxhounds echoes through the forest reminiscent of the calls of the hounds of death. I trip over a tree root, and I lie there, sobbing in the dirt for a mere second. Blood flows from my cut up legs and congeals in the dirt. As I pull myself up my foot collapses under my weight, still, I struggle on. A spike of adrenaline rushes through my veins mixing with the terror and pain, yet I must continue to run, even with each step feeling as if knives are cutting into my flesh. I glance at my foot, where bone is visible between torn open flesh, but I still continue to run. They cannot be allowed to catch me. But blood keeps flowing out of my leg, and the trees are seemingly duplicating and my vision becomes blurry until the last sight I witness is the ground rising up to meet my collapsing body.

I wake up, the pain in my ankle has dulled to a low throb and as I attempt to appraise my wounds, it becomes clear that my ankle has been bandaged. I try to move, so I can peek beneath the bandage to discern how gravely hurt my foot is, but I can't. Rope is entwined around my wrists, chafing them and causing reddened welts. Struggling against the ropes, desperate to be free as I contemplate the damp, and narrow cell I have been placed in. I can hear footsteps outside of my cell, and my struggles increase. A key grates in the metal lock and the door swings open, and there he stands, the living embodiment of Satan. The witch-hunter general here to condemn another innocent woman, dressed in the puritan style with a large black hat, grand black boots with a twisted expression of hatred splashed across his face. He glowers at me with his cold eyes, and I can’t help flinching. 

“Witch!” he spits the word at me from his pursed lips, and thus denounces me. 

“Thou art a villain for thou hast denounced me as such. For I’m no witch, simply a learned woman, something thou fails to comprehend.” I retort.

“Thou hast performed witchcraft upon the innocents in this village. Thou hast also partaken in connubial acts outside of the bonds of marriage, a most wicked action.” He states accusingly.

“I performed aseptic medicine, provided herbal recipes for common ailments and assisted in midwifery. Thou condemns me for helping others. I angrily inform him. “Also thou judgeth me for partaking in connubial acts, but thou don’t condemn the men, do thee?” I ask rhetorically.

“Thou art a witch, I hath had witnesses testify against thee.” He tells me with a smirk. “Tomorrow thou will face trial by dunking.” He leaves my cell with a self-satisfied look on his face. 

I had lain awake all night, tossing and turning on the hard and damp floor, but finally what I was worrying over was here whether I liked it or not. They burst into my cell at dawn and dragged me to my feet, which instantly give out under my weight, pain shooting through my injured foot. I blinked the black spots out of my vision and was then immediately pulled up again and dragged out of the cell with my toes lightly grazing the ground. Sunlight hits my face as they drag me out of the prison, they drag me down through a line of people all hissing at me, towards a pond. Witch, whore, Satan worshipper, and worse are hissed at me as I am dragged towards the small pond. I am abruptly dropped on the ground at the edge of the pond, and my clothes are torn from me leaving me only in my undergarments. The Witch-Hunter General himself ties my wrists to my ankles with rope and loops some around my waist. He turns to address the crowd.

“I the Witch-Hunter General and my assistants have identified this woman, Jane Fields as a witch by following the guidelines on how to spot a witch from the book Malleus Maleficarum. As per the witch tests, we will now perform the swimming test, if she floats she's a witch and has rejected the baptismal waters and if she sinks she is not a witch and we may be able to pull her out before she drowns. What hast thou to say for thyself witch?” He says turning to me. 

“I am not a witch and have never been one. Thou hast judged me most unfairly.” 

He bends down and whispers next to my ear, “thou may not be a witch, but thou will die regardless if thou sinks we shalt not pull thou out.” 

He turns back to the crowd and quotes the bible, “as of Exodus chapter 22 verse 18, thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, and so we will not allow this one to deceive us and continue her wretched life. Commence the swimming test.”

They toss me into the waters as one would discard something into a rubbish heap believing it to be of little importance or consequence. The ice-cold water surrounds my body, turning me cold and clammy, I’m still alive but I feel as if I already have one foot in the grave. My breath runs out and I panic and open my mouth only to find water rushing in instead of the sweet air I crave. I flip myself onto my back and flail my bound wrists around until I reach the surface and manage a quick breath before sinking back down. The pond water is murky and the pondweed is already all through my hair and curled between my toes. My undergarments swirl around me like a dirty cloud. I need air again and as I sink to the bottom of the pond in a crouch, for my hands are still tied to my feet I push off from the muddy algae coated bottom and I can see the blue, blue sky as I surface and my lungs are filled with the sweet relief of cool, crisp winter air. But the villagers saw me surface to breathe and they yell “witch, she’s a witch.” and someone is chanting “burn her, burn her, burn the witch.” The rope tightens around my waist and I am dragged into the shallows and tugged out of the water still coughing and spluttering. Two grim-faced men grab me and pull me up onto the bank. They undo the ropes binding my feet to my wrists, and then they tie my wrists together again but this time behind my back. 

They frogmarch me up the hill where there is a tall wooden pole surrounded by kindling, I start to struggle in an attempt to get away. My efforts weakened by my recent half-drowning. But my struggles are all for nothing and they tie me to the pole, binding the rope around my waist, my shoulders and my arms. The townspeople surround me and the stake I am tied to, yelling atrocious things at me. A man piles more kindling around me and the stake I am tied to. I see my sister, Mary and my young niece, Elizabeth standing in the circle of with grave expressions on their faces, I recognise other faces and start to shriek loudly in the faint hope that maybe someone, anyone would help me. Cold eyes looked into mine and with a smug expression on his face Matthew Hopkins, the Witch-Hunter General lights the torch and approaches me. “No, please, no, I’m innocent, oh please no, no, no.” I’m shrieking and sobbing but nobody is doing anything, nobody, nobody. Shakespeare was right, Hell is empty and all the devils here. He touches the torch to the kindling which instantly lights up in ablaze. I can feel the heat of the flames licking at my feet which start to blister from the presence of the flame. The flames reach my feet and I scream, a long harsh sound filled with agony and pain. I can feel my flesh melting from me and the flames grow higher. I can see my skin bubbling and the fat dripping onto the flame. My screams continue as the flames reach my waist and then……


End file.
